


Sometimes

by space_kid (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I promise, M/M, Suicide, i swear i have nothing against John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:20:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/space_kid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story set with John right after Sherlock's "death," and Sherlock right after John's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes

Sometimes when John closes his eyes really tightly, he can see his obsideion curls atop his China doll face, with his perfectly pale pout and icy blue eyes that make it seem he's tearing your soul apart.

Sometimes when John is silent for long enough, he can still hear his deductions rolling off his tongue, making observations forgotten by the naked eye. Deductions that are pointless today, right now.

Sometimes when John ran fast enough, he could still see his hazy blue scarf whipping about like a flag, and his black trench coat flailing about not too far behind, revealing long legs shrouded in tailored trousers.

Sometimes when John misses him enough, he visits his grave, always missing flowers or other visitors. The groundskeepers know his name. John Watson, the man who lost his best friend to suicide.

Except it wasn't just suicide. It was falling. Falling, falling, falling. The could ground catching him, enveloping him in the brisk winter and practically kidnapping him. John wanted to pay then ransom for his return. He would've. He should've. He didn't.

Sometimes when it was dark enough, and deserted enough, John cried until his tears froze to his cheeks.

* * *

Sometimes when Sherlock closed his eyes tight enough, he could still see John standing in whichever ridiculous jumper it was today. Striped, tan, Christmas. All were equally silly and idiotic. He found himself caring less and less, until he realized he liked them. John without a jumper is Anderson with his brain in tact. Impossible.

Sometimes when Sherlock was silent for long enough, he could hear a muffled and distant clicking on his keys, blogging today's events in a blog that documented their life, typing only using his two pointer fingers, going painfully slow.

Sometimes when Sherlock stayed still long enough, he could feel John's radiated warmth on his arm, amplified by the scruffy softness of the previously mentioned jumper. That's another thing: John was always warm and welcoming.

Sometimes when Sherlock missed him enough, he would go to his room which was still littered with papers and dirty clothes Sherlock never wanted to put away or wash. All the artifacts knew Sherlock and mocked him. Sherlock Holmes, the man who lost his best friend to suicide.

Except it wasn't just suicide. It was failing. Failing, failing, failing. Failing to get to John, to save him from himself and defend him from his demons. Sherlock would've given anything to get back to John quicker. He couldn't. He would've. He didn't.

Sometimes when it was dark and quiet enough, he'd go to John's room and play him a song until he fingers got blisters.

* * *

Sometimes when he saw his face, he wanted to put a bullet in his brain, to stop the images from appearing. John wanted the pictures to erase from existence, he wanted them gone from his memory. John tried to forget. And when he failed, he tried again. 

Sherlock's face would forever be in John's mind. And that terrified him.

* * *

Sometimes when he saw John in his mind, he wanted to paint it on the first available surface, to never forget John. He wanted dozens of sketches, paintings, pastels of John's stormy blue eyes and golden honey hair. Sherlock tried to remember his voice. And when he failed he tried again.

Sherlock would never remember John's voice. And that terrified him.

* * *

Sometimes when John thought about his life, all he wanted to do was end it. It was pitiful, to say the least. No family, no girlfriend, no kids, practically no friends. John wanted to call someone to send him back to Afghanistan. At least there he had a routine; wake up, march, eat, march, repeat. Here, John felt broken and bent. 

John felt dead.

* * *

Whenever Sherlock thought about his life, all he wanted to do was have a different one. It was chaotic, to say the least. Boring family, no girlfriend, no kids, no friends. All Sherlock wanted to do was call the morgue, to ask if John is really dead. The result was always hanging up.

Sherlock felt alive. It was disgusting.

* * *

Sometimes, when John got bored, he thought about what it would feel like to have a rope around your neck, legs suspended from the air, writhing and kicking for one good breath. How long would it take? Would he cry? Scream? Both? Or would it be a struggling choking?

Sometimes, when John got lonely, he thought about how many pills it would take to maul his insides, his body screaming and burning and dying all from the inside. How long would he feel pain? 10 minutes. 30? An hour? Or would John fall asleep, and simply never wake up?

Sometimes when John got scared, he fished out a bottle and a rope. Guns were too loud. He'd hold them until he set them down, and read or fall asleep.

Until one time he didn't.

* * * 

Sometimes when Sherlock got bored, he thought about what his reunion with John might've looked like. He would've appeared to John, perhaps while he was visiting his grave like he did alot. He'd shadow over him, and hold his hand up, offering him to a ride of a lifetime- again.

Sometimes when Sherlock got lonely, he'd read John's blog, written what feels like eons ago. "A Study in Pink." "The Hounds of Bakersville." John had spent forever typing them, with his two finger technique that could put a child to sleep.

Sometimes when Sherlock got scared, he'd grab his car keys and a stack of money. He'd never gone to John's funeral. He'd think until he set them down and preformed an experiment.

Until one time he didn't.

* * *

One time when John got really scared, really lonely, and really bored, he'd put a pistol in his mouth. It tasted like freedom. Metal, metallic, freedom.

One time when John got really scared, really lonely, and really bored, he pulled the trigger.

One time John Watson died.

Sometimes he'd cared.

* * *

One time when Sherlock got really scared, really lonely, and really bored, he went to John's grave. He picked a daisy blooming on the patch of grass in front of the shiny black. It smelled like death. Fresh, clean death.

One time when Sherlock got really scared, really lonely, and really bored, he'd cried to John and play him violin in the dark.

One time Sherlock Holmes cried.

Sometimes he cared.


End file.
